


Collide for One Embrace

by Ladycat



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bottom Derek, Dirty Talk, F/M, Fantasizing, Gangbang, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, no actual sex takes place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2013-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-23 16:59:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/928933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles makes an offhand comment.  Derek discovers he has an imagination that takes him to places best left inside his head.  Aka: masturbation porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Collide for One Embrace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [turnonmyheels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnonmyheels/gifts).



> For Turnonmyheels, who requested the kind of sex you don't really want in real life, but have no problem fantasizing about.

According to morons who think too much and lack the brain-to-mouth filter, Derek spent the last few years having sex with anything that moved. He's had lovers, one night stands, hookups that took place in back-alleys (there are *no alleys in New York*, why the hell would Derek suddenly find himself in one?) with men and women both, sometimes multiples of each. The general tone is that Derek needs sex: a punishment, a release. Or maybe just that he's a slut.

Reality is slightly different.

Derek has had sex four times. Once with the first of his destructive, dangerous girlfriends. Once with the second.

And twice with a guy.

It wasn't in a back alley. He wasn't a stranger. Kevin was human and harmless with a pert, sly little mouth that could somehow open wide enough to take Derek's _fist_ and an utter delight in making Derek feel like he was falling out of control. He knew about wolves and didn't care; got off, in fact, on rolling his eyes and generally rough housing with something that could tear his throat out.

He'd laughed at Derek, skulking around the back of a bar. Derek had worked as a busboy there, despite initially being hired as a bouncer. He was big enough and getting bigger by the time he'd hit New York, utterly fanatical about never looking like the weakling he knew he was (in his heart, burned up and struggling to beat against ashes). Standing outside all night didn't bother him but the reek of sex, of men and women marinating in it, stronger still than the sweet-sharp tang of alcohol, made Derek lightheaded, useless.

The owner took pity on him and sent him into the kitchen instead. Derek drowned himself in grease and cleaning solvent and was beyond grateful.

Kevin hadn't wanted affection. That's the only reason their assignations- Derek couldn't say hook up, not even in his own mind, since it wasn't and had never been something as meaningless as that- took place. Kevin had been upfront about wanting to drive Derek out of his head using pretty much any method he felt like.

Derek had been weak twice. Just twice.

So when Stiles cants a glance at him with those ridiculously huge anime eyes and taps a long finger against his chin before spouting out an insane number, "It's gotta be closer to fifty, right? I mean, look at you," with that terrifyingly attractive hint of derision and longing both, Derek finally has enough. He growls, low enough that the floor shakes. Looks Stiles in the eye and says, "Get out."

Five minutes later he's on his bed, naked, with a hand around his cock.

Kevin had talked too much. He'd whispered filthy fantasies, spinning pictures that dazzled Derek into squirming, into _obeying_. Tying Derek down even though ropes would have little effect if there was no wolfsbane or mountain ash to keep his abilities in check, or maybe just winding them around his body, creating art with hemp and skin, muscles pulled into sharp relief. Gagging him with a cock, real or fake, forcing him to breathe only through his nose while his eyes widened, went red and wet, bulging even more than usual as Derek struggled to make his chest work, his body keep on going while he slowly choked to the point Kevin felt he'd had enough. Beating him with a paddle, a whip, the items lovingly listed beyond Derek's knowledge beyond the pain they might leave. The _marks_ , mottled roses that would proclaim him for who he was.

Who he _is_.

That's what Derek thinks of now as thumbs over his foreskin, working the delicate skin until it hurts, until when he looks down it's to see the heavy mushroom tip of his cock leaking steadily. Kevin's words, yes, but twisted into Stiles' damn _voice_ , the way he can go strident to velvet in a few well-placed words, forceful even when he's holding onto hurts that make his eyes sheen into fucking mirrors. And that comment, fifty.

Fifty people for Derek. Who would touch him, careless, proprietary hands, casually the way they would tap on a table, push in a chair. Those people ( _fifty_ ) would handle him in the most literal way, palms and fingernails both run over him from hair to the soles of his feet, lines scratched idly down his back in a motion that was petting, but not since Derek's enjoyment, unlike a cat's, was immaterial. What mattered is whoever it was felt like stroking something and Derek just happened to be there.

Those fifty would make a throng around him, jockeying for position to poke into his mouth (and Derek would suck, licking up to taste whoever it is the way he licks his lips now, mouth open because he can't help it, he can't), his nose, thumbing over his nipples. They would pose him, position him, rolling him from back to side, forcing him onto his front as if he were a rag doll, unable to resist as they used the map of his skin for whatever it is they wanted.

Some of them would probably want to curl their hands into fists, expend force before they connected. Derek drops his hand down to his thigh, pulling up his leg to grab where it's not quite leg, not definitely ass and squeezes tight. One or two of those fifty, maybe more, they'd want to do that, too. Painful slaps and pinches, the idle shove into his belly. A command to tighten up, take it, and Derek lets himself go rigid for a moment, imagining beatings that have nothing to do with someone's life, with too many deaths. Just sensation, the hard pressure of skin on his for skin's sake. Pain would wrack him and Derek would let it. Derek always welcomes pain. It's familiar, a friend by now, the penance he can never fulfill.

Maybe another command would be to relax, go limp. Don't fight. _You always fight everything, Derek,_ Stiles voice mocks him and against it Derek hears himself moan, _Just stop it_. His body goes obligingly limp, a long, heavy sigh leaking out of him as he relaxes the way he rarely does, each muscle group gone mellow and unresisting as the phantom touches- blows, still, so many blows and Derek could sob, can feel the sting of saline against his eyes but he won't; he doesn't- still rain down. The Derek in his head is shoved and kicked by these fifty people, torn into until he shudders with each breath, aching, cock still so hard that he has to release it in favor of cupping and rolling his balls, free hand now on his belly, pressing down and down and down until he can barely breathe, lost in nothing but sensation.

Of course that's when the fantasy changes. It's still fifty people. That's a banquet hall and Derek is the feast in the middle. People still mill around him, talking to each other but never to Derek. They talk about him, casual comments about how prettily he bruises, because in his fantasies Derek is covered with the marks real life never allows him. The tattoo was a small thing compared to the scars he should be covered with, the horrific burn patterns his uncle had slept through that only Derek deserves. _Get him hard_ , one person says, and if it sounds like Stiles Derek is too lost to notice it. He cups his cock again, pushed back from coming because he wants to see this through, to see where his damaged psyche takes him.

Already hard, in his fantasy he's rolled onto his back and one of those hundred hands, maybe more than one, slides up and down his cock. The hands are long, fine-fingered, fine-boned, with an odd smoothness to the tip that comes from too much time on a computer. They drag up and down his cock, his balls. His chest and mouth (more sucking, and Derek barely hears the noises his mouth makes as it purses around phantom fingers), pinching his nipples and dragging between his legs to press behind his balls, then further down until they're inside him. _He's enjoying it, look,_ the voice says. _I think he wants all of us. You do, don't you. You want to be gangbanged._

Fifty people, Stiles had said, and it's taken this long for Derek to realize what exactly he's taken from that number. All fifty, at once. Taking their turn, waiting and chatting while someone sits on his chest, feeding him a cock he'll suck down so gratefully, another in his ass while a cunt slides hot and ready over his aching cock. He's fucked and rutted against. Used, his own body immaterial except as a means for someone else's pleasure. Before long the Derek he can see so clearly is covered in fluid, sweat and come mixing until he can barely smell himself the way the real Derek can, inhaling over and over the scent of his own precome, his own sweat. His cock is aching, so hard he can barely touch it for moaning and Derek doesn't moan. Kevin had enjoyed that, calling it a challenge. Now Derek can't stop making noise, whimpers and groans, sighs that are punched out of him the way his fantasy encourages. People beat his chest while they ride his cock, his ass. They slap his face while they fuck his throat. Caresses too, touches of pleasure and enjoyment that make something tremble inside of him, those long, lingering sort of touches doing more damage than the harshest of blows, the sharpest of claws.

Derek pictures himself as the slut Stiles tacitly named him. An eager, welcoming slut there to be kicked, then told to kiss what's hurt him, because isn't that what happens in real life? The differing order doesn't matter. Desolation, pleasure, they are twined together like ivy, indistinguishable breeds that dig thorns into him no matter how his healing tries to expel them.

By now Derek is back to jerking himself, hips working, abs gone rigid with tension. Sweat licks down his spine, dampens the sheets beneath him. He is spread wide for his phantom partners, all fifty-

Fifty one. At first Derek thinks he's picturing Kevin, who would have laughed and laughed and urged all of this on, because Kevin had always known what it was Derek wanted (needed) whether or not Derek himself did. That's why he went back a second time. But it isn't Kevin, who stood too short for his massive personality, too pretty for the age of his eyes. This one is taller, slimmer, for all the smirk is the same; their eyes, too old, too all-seeing.

_Let me in_ , this person says and Derek, sodden and desperate, lifts his legs up even as he drops his jaw down, open for whatever it is his fantasy lover wants. He images the taste of the cock on his tongue, different than all the ones before. The feel of it dragging down his chest, his stomach, rutted there while hands dig into his throat, keeping him pinned and breathless.

And then inside of him, sharp, powerful thrusts that make Derek cry out, hoarse and oddly shrill, head thrown back, neck corded. He rocks against the bed, juddering the way he would if he were fucked as fiercely as he imagines, a brand different than all the touches before. Hands on his shoulders, shoving him down, another set of hips bucking him up until he's forced nearly in half. He fucks and is fucked by this fantasy, hand flying over his cock as he says, "Please, please, _please_ ," to an empty apartment and a phantom voice that says, _Yeah_ and _Come, let me see it_ and _Gonna come in you now_ , like these are things that Derek wants to hear. Needs to hear.

And maybe he does because he comes so hard he goes white with it, blind and ringing to a shout he couldn't prevent anymore than, well. Anything else he's tried and failed at. Ropes of come splatter over his chest, his abs, and when he finally comes down and releases his cock he feels like he's spent an hour in an actual gangbang, like he's been so thoroughly used that he feels... clean? Derek swallows against a throat gone paper dry and prods the word, wondering why it isn't empty or abused or small or broken.

It stays clean, though. Maybe relieved, too. Like something dark and wrong inside of him has faded away, expunged with his orgasm.

It doesn't make any sense.

Before Derek can bother with the decision of worrying about it or not, his beeps. Grumbling silently, he rolls over on one side and grabs it with nerveless fingers. Stiles' beaming face, put there by said beaming idiot, looks up at him above the message _Remember how we said this was no problem? Problem._

Stiles always texts in complete sentences if he has the time. That means it isn't that big of a problem. Derek sighs and scrubs over his face. He really doesn't want to move. For once he feels like he can sleep without dreams of smoke or licking yellow flame, about a red-slashed smile from mouths that had been practiced in deceit.

_Dude, come on_ , Stiles texts.

_20 min_ , Derek replies, because he's an asshole.

Weirdly, he grins when Stiles sends back an incomprehensible string of gibberish that Derek already knows translates to a pair of narrowed eyes and an annoyed huff. He rolls onto his feet and heads to the shower, oddly light as he trots up the stairs because Stiles might have done something stupid, because it's Stiles, really, but he also did something nice. Whether he knows it or not.

As hot water starts to sluice away the evidence of that something nice, Derek realizes that he can lord this over Stiles without him every knowing _what_ Derek is so smug about.

(And maybe that isn't true, maybe this is going to backfire completely the way all his plans do, as Stiles is so fond of reminding him, but maybe it won't, maybe it will lead to something different, because his plans and Stiles are a combination not found in nature and there is no predicting how they will act and react around each other. Maybe Derek likes that, a little. A lot. Or maybe it is true and he just wants to be a smug dick to someone who can take it.)

Derek starts to hum the way he hasn't in ten years.


End file.
